The Jotted Line

In a time when
the light was bent
in just the place
to clear the way

there was also
growth, of seed to
stalk, to leaves and
branches, reaching

curling, swaying
their way towards
that very light
refracted in

reflected out
of the self, or
at least the eye
of the body

And for the eye
there was nothing
to be done but
strain towards that

light, though it was
already reached
and yet it was
unreachable.

To some it seemed
that light could be
touched with barely
a passing glance

if only one
looked long enough
into the void
of distant light -

but only a
myth, it did not
survive narrowed
eyes, focused looks.

Though there might have
been a way to
stop progression
earlier on

of those longing
blurry gazes
and cast away
the future's fate

if only we
had considered
prevention more
seriously.

But alas, it
is too late to
turn back, or change
the tidal force

that keeps us all
together as
time, and age, and
eyes grow weary.